Better Left Unsaid
by igaveattheoffice
Summary: Continuation on Death Penalties. Pls R
1. Stephen

*******OK here I gowhere to startthis is an entirely new setting for me since I'm used to a medical setting rather than a legal one, not to mention a time difference of 50 years

Disclaimers: if they were mine, I'd keep Bobby all to myself. 

This story is intended as an add-on to "Death Penalties." I've never done the changing point of view but I'm hoping that it will capture all the aspects I'm trying to get into this. I don't know whether Bobby's mother was given a first name but if she was, someone please let me know so I can correct the error. 

constructive criticism welcome (please don't be too brutal!) at hot_lips_4077@hotmail.com

BETTER LEFT UNSAID, PART ONE

I observe him unnoticed from the back of the courtroom. Shoulders drooping, he has his head lowered dejectedly. Sure, he has lost cases before, but this one is different. It strikes a deep chord in Bobby's heart; his and mine. I don't believe the jury should have convicted his client. Scott Simpson did something that, shocking as it may be, didn't earn him the title of murderer. And that is what hit Bobby so hard.

Lindsay passes by, giving me a tight, sad smile. She is worried about Bobby. That's what brought her to me. I remember the conversation we had just a little while ago. "_Your son needs you_" her words echoed as if she was saying them for the first time. A memory, reeking of pain, tries to edge its way into my consciousness. I've shut it away for so long–maybe it's time to let it free

__

The doctors are just outside the door in the corridor. We can hear their voices from inside the room, low murmurs beneath the sounds of the respirator and the other machines. Emily is not even conscious anymore. I can only hope that her state can dull the pain that has plagued her increasingly for the last few months.

I look at Bobby. Our son. Fifteen years oldGod, he is too young to have to deal with this yet. It's easy to see the toll that his mother's decline has taken on him. His eyes are haunted, his expression too solemn.

He's just a kid! And yet, he has managed to be stronger than I have.

The doctors have told us that the choice is ours. The push of one button would forever put a stop to Emily's pain. It's the right thing to do. But I can't bring myself to do it. Once it's done, there's no bringing her back. The thought is too much to handle. I push it out of my mind. There are tears in my eyes. I stand up, walk to Bobby's chair. My hand is on his shoulder and he is looking at me, his own eyes filling. I tell him that I have said my goodbyes already and that he should do this one last thing for his mother. And then I leave the room. Huddle into a plastic chair in the hallway. Five minutes later, Bobby comes out. His eyes are dried but there is no life in them, no sparkle. No laughter. "It's all over," he says in a quiet voice. In that instant, the little boy is gone. He has left childhood in the room behind us.

That memory glides smoothly into another. A year later, maybe two. Bobby, tall, as serious as ever, trying to talk me into something.

__

"Come on, Dad! It's just an extra hour. Just one more hour."

"If it's only an hour than how important can it be?" 

"My friends all stay out later! Mom would have let me" he trails off. I lift my eyes to meet his stubborn gaze. It is the first time that he has said anything like that. He hadn't even cried at her funeral. I hadn't either, and maybe he was following me. A few months later, he began asking about Emily's life before his own birth. I wouldn't answer any of his questions. It hurt too much. And now, this. The memory of the hospital room, the respiratorit all comes rushing back. I shut it out quickly. "No, Robert." He knows the case is closed but he is not happy about it.

What did I do to him? Was I too selfish in making him push that button? Have I driven him to this point? He shuts out his feelings as I unconsciously taught him to do. Lindsay was right. He needs me now. But how do you convince your son that he didn't murder his mother?


	2. Bobby

My father and I were always close when I was growing up, especially after my mother's death. But there was always a small resentment I held for him. Maybe he realizes it, maybe not, but a small part of me always thinks of him not as my father, but as Stephen Donnell- the man who made me press the button to end my mother's life

Who left me to become her murderer. If Scott Simpson is a murderer for ending his wife's pain, when she had a matter of days left, then how am I any different? Pulling a triggerpushing a buttonwhat does it matter, when the ending is the same?

I feel like I should barge into the judge's chambers and demand that **I** be taken into custody. 

The memory is sharp in my mind. My father, pain shrouding his eyes, telling me that it was up to me. The way he said it made it seem like a favor to Mom rather than an excuse for him. And he has refused to talk about it since then. Maybe that's why I have a difficult time expressing my own pain.

Realizing that I should be leaving the courthouse and getting back to work, I stand and turn. My father is silently watching me from a seat in the back of the room. I guess I look surprised at his presence because he tries to smile a little and speaks.

"Let's go talk over a drink."

I can see it in his eyes. For the first time in over twenty years, he's ready to let it out.

Minutes later we are seated in high stools at a bar I've never been to. One of his favorite hangouts, I assume. He orders a beer but I stick with ice water. The last thing I need right now is alcohol but I know that Dad feels he does.

We are silent for a few minutes, the crowd bubbling around us. "How did you know?" I finally ask.

"Lindsay," he answers. Lindsay. I should have guessed. I know she's worried about me but It never occurred to me that she would somehow talk my father into having this conversation with me. "She came to me earlier. Walked right into the men's room." He pauses to smile at that. Oh, geez, Lindsay, you're going to get into trouble doing something like that one of these days

"Bobby, when you were fifteen years old, I instilled something in you that, if I had realized I was doing it, I never would have. I made you bottle your grief like I do."

"I do not bottle my grief," I protest.

"Yes, you do. Why do you think cases like this one hit you so hard? It's a recurring theme- the battle to see who is hurting most."

I don't like what he's saying but something inside me knows that he's right. 

"Bobby," he continues softly, "You didn't murder your mother and God, I'm sorry for letting you go on for so long." 

Something in his tone strikes me deeply. I am seeing faces, memories. _My mother in her last few days, hanging onto life by the wires connecting her to machines all around herLindsay, unconscious and bleeding in the hospital after George Vogelman stabbed herVogelman himself terrorizing us all after we had worked so hard for him. Who would have thought that such an innocent-looking guyPatrick Rooney, whose face haunted me for weeks after he had been killed while holding a gun to my head_and suddenly I'm crying. Damnit! I don't cry. Haven't since Mom's death. But now here I am in a bar sobbing for all the tears I never shed. For Lindsay, being so strong throughout everything. For Helen, who pulled the plug on her grandmother but doesn't view it the same as I do. For Mom, Dad, and myself. Perhaps we can all be appeased now. Dad has his hand on my shoulder and when I glance at him I am startled to see that he, too, is crying. We might look ridiculous to the other patrons in the bar-two grown men crying like babies- but we don't care. 

I don't know how much time goes by before we have both calmed down. Dad looks at his watch and looks back to me. "Now if I'm not mistaken," he hints, "You probably have someone waiting at home who is very worried about you." 

Right again, Dad. I've shut Lindsay out again, refusing to admit that she was right when she suggested that I was taking this case to heart too much. As dormant as the memories have been, they have remained a nightmare for as long as I have allowed them to plague me. Talk it out–with Dad, with Lindsaylet the nightmare go.


	3. Lindsay

I somehow- don't ask me how, exactly- managed to go through the rest of the afternoon on auto-pilot, my mind far away from my work. It's bad, I know; I can't afford to space out in this line of work. Nevertheless, my personal life sometimes comes in ahead of my career. 

This is one of those times. 

I would never tell my boss that, though. He's such a workaholic that he tries so hard to keep his career ahead of his personal life, and expects his colleagues to do the same. You goofed this time, Bobby. 

Besides, when your boss _is_ your personal life, I like to think allowances can be made. 

This case has Bobby weary to the bone and it's starting to show. In a way, I'm relieved it's over although I am not satisfied with the outcome. 

__

How could_ they find him guilty?_

I hate that Bobby and Helen were the ones on this case. It cut them both too deep and I am torn between them-my best friend and my fiancé. I would never in a million years tell Helen this, but my opinion takes the same form as Bobby's. Still, maybe I shouldn't have talked with Stephen. NoI'm fairly confident that I did the right thing. This I was certain of when I saw Stephen sitting in the back of the courtroom this morning. 

He and Bobby are probably talking right now. It will do Bobby some good, to be confronted with this, with his past. It won't hurt Stephen, either. The poor guy probably didn't realize what effect his own grief had on his son-an impressionable kid of fifteen who still looked to Dad for the answers to life. 

With this thought, I realize that I have no idea when Bobby will be home, much less what we'll do for dinner. Maybe we can just go over to the Salty Dog for seafood or something. Or maybe... 

Maybe he's home early, I discover, pulling my car in next to his Audi. What a day. Any day that sees Bobby home _early_ from work is one for the books. 

Entering the apartment, I see him curled up at one end of the couch, gazing sightlessly out the huge picture window that overlooks the harbor. He has a glass of Chardonnay in his hand but it looks untouched. "Bobby?" I speak quietly so he isn't startled. It doesn't work. He gives a small jump and a bit of the wine splashes onto the carpet. Oh, well. At least it's white wine. It isn't important right now. 

"Hi," he says, "I didn't hear you come in." He glances at the clock. I kick off my pumps and join him on the couch. Give him time to talk when he's ready, my brain reminds me. It's fine, I am content to just wrap my arms around him in the silence, signaling that I am ready whenever he is. It's a while before he speaks, but his hand moves to my stomach, where he is tracing my scars through the suit jacket and shirt I'm wearing. 

"I'm sorry, Linds-" his voice cracks when he finally speaks. There is no need to ask what he is talking about. I hold him tighter. His arms come up around me and he rocks me like a baby. "I'm sorry," he says again, and somehow, that's all we need. I can see it in his eyes; some kind of inner calm has reached him at long last. 

And it's enough. 

THE END


End file.
